by Lamar Giles
“I did think—hoped—he’d make her get an abortion. Guess it’s a Catholic thing. He can sell smack to second graders but maintains a prolife stance. I didn’t overthink it.”
Reya collapsed into the mayor’s desk chair, the weight of it all crushing.
“You killed Eli to keep your secret,” I said.
“I killed him to keep all the secrets. He offered me a deal that night. If I copped to Pilar’s pregnancy and ‘did the right thing,’ he’d make Whispertown disappear. Destroy all the files he had, and let my dad conduct business as usual. If I denied the pregnancy, he’d expose Whispertown and ruin everything. I mean, yeah, my name was on the line, but the idea of a bunch of grade A lunatics running around free . . . so many fun possibilities.
“Too bad you won’t get to see what comes next. . . .” He swung the gun toward me, his finger curling around the trigger.
CHAPTER 46
FACING A FIREARM TIP #2: The only dangerous part is the barrel. Control the barrel, control the gunman.
A rifle has a long barrel. It’s meant to kill at a distance. Dustin’s swing act reminded me of a metronome, the thing that sits on a piano and keeps time when you’re learning to play. Mom insisted on lessons when I was young, wanting to expose me to “culture.” I never caught on, but my teacher was fond of saying “find the time between the swings.”
I did. Dustin was confident, had gotten used to swinging that gun in a rhythm, more intimidation than action. On that final swing, the one where he might’ve killed me, I was in motion the second he cleared Reya.
He panicked when I moved, squeezing off a round that would’ve stopped my heart—had I been where he thought I was. Only the barrel of a gun is dangerous, and that long rifle barrel can be unwieldy for a kid with a broken arm. I went low, under the bullet. He couldn’t adjust fast enough. By the time he did, I had a grip on the barrel, directing it away from me and Reya. He squeezed two more rounds, each damaging the wall and nothing else.
I gave him my best punch, right on the chin.
He laughed and slugged me with his cast arm. It felt like a crowbar.
I went down sideways, snatching the rifle from his poor grip, but unable to hang on to it myself. It spun across the carpet until it rested near its original spot, in front of the shattered gun cabinet.
He moved toward it. I couldn’t let that happen. If he got it back, or worse, reached a loaded handgun—much shorter barrel, much harder to control—we were done.
I scrambled on my knees to cut him off, punching him hard in the thigh. His leg buckled slightly, but he managed to swing with his good hand, catching me behind the ear. His punches felt like he was swinging dumbbells.
Can’t stay down, Nick. Stay down and you die.
Snagging his belt, I yanked myself up, throwing him off balance. He went for a power hook that I saw coming, and ducked before he took my head off. I positioned myself between him and the guns, raised my hands.
His smile widened as he went to the balls of his feet, brought his cast hand to his ear and his good hand under his eye, forming fists. “A lot of people thought my dad was abusive,” he said, faking a jab and a cross. “He was just a hands-on kind of teacher.”
The next jab busted my lip.
Two more punches, a hook and an uppercut. I blocked the hook, which was probably his intent, because all of his power was in the uppercut, his cast arm landing squarely in the pit of my stomach, taking me back to one knee.
He geared up for an overhand strike that would likely knock unconscious. I’d sleep through him blowing my head off if I let him win this fight. He was a trained boxer. His skill at the sport topped mine in every way. But boxers have one universal weakness.
Rules.
I grabbed a handful of broken glass, slicing my palm and not caring, flicked it in his face as his swung. He screamed, and the punch clipped my shoulder. I drove that same shoulder into his midsection, ran him backward, tripping him on his father’s dead body. We both went down on a bloodstain, me on top, and I proceeded to beat him with every bit of rage I’d spared Zach Lynch from.
Fists, knees, elbows. I expelled all the adrenaline-fueled energy I had, and more. He fought, too, but I was beyond pain. For each of his blows, I gave back two. I watched his face darken, and puff, and leak as my hands smashed, smashed, smashed. When one of his teeth flew sideways from his mouth, I paused, finally feeling the throbbing from my split knuckles. The blood on his face was as much mine as his.
The crazy bastard was still conscious, though.
“That’s enough, Nick,” said Reya. “It’s my turn.”
I followed her voice. She inspected Dustin’s discarded rifle like an expert, turning it this way and that, checking the receiver and ejector ports, staring down the sight.
She said, “Move. I’ll finish it.”
I didn’t move. “Reya, he’s done. Let’s call someone and they can take him away.”
“We can’t trust the cops, remember? That’s not one of his ‘maybe it’s real, maybe it’s not’ stories. You said that. Move!”
Dustin spat up a clump of blood. “Move, Nick. Let me get a go with her.”
I punched him unconscious. I’m trying to save your life, jerk. “Reya, put that gun down.”
“He killed my brother, his friends, tried to kill us. I’m ending that pendejo. And don’t try to give me some ‘I’m better than that’ bull. I’m not better than avenging my brother.”
I wasn’t going to give her that speech. For one, it was bull. Stuff they say in movies so the hero won’t kill the main bad guy, even though he probably killed a hundred of his henchmen getting to him. The military and the police killed bad guys all the time. Hell, one of the people I loved most in the world killed bad guys for money. Dustin Burke deserved to go.
Reya didn’t deserve what came after.
I’d seen what happened when people had blood on their hands. Bricks took pills to sleep, never had a girlfriend for more than a few weeks. My dad turned mean and bitter, basically flushed his family down the toilet. Dustin, he got hungry for more blood, saw it all like some play he was directing.
Offing Dustin in Eli’s name might not be a negative for Reya. Maybe she’d grow up to have a good life, healthy relationships, peace. I wasn’t willing to bet on it though, even if the collateral was a piece of crap like Dustin Burke.
I stood up, kept myself between her and him.
Twin trails of tears slid down her cheeks. “Please move, Nick.”
“I can’t do that.” I closed the distance.
She aimed. At me. “Maldita sea! Move!”
I grabbed the barrel, as I had with Dustin, but gently. She let the gun go. I tossed it aside and embraced her, let her cry.
We still had a problem. We couldn’t trust the cops, but we had to call someone.
One person came to mind.
I walked Reya to the corner, retrieved our phones, and made the call. “Dad, I’ve got trouble.”
I explained as much as I could as fast as I could, never taking my eye off Dustin. He stayed as still as his father. When I was done, Dad got quiet. I was afraid I’d dropped the call.
“Hello?” I said.
“I’m here.” He didn’t sound like it. He seemed distracted.
“Did you hear what I told you?” Paper rustled, like when we were on the conference call and Bertram shuffled through his files. “Where are you?”
“I’m at home, son.”
“I don’t want Mom to know what happened, okay?”
“She won’t,” he said, still vacant, not engaged. Like I didn’t tell him I was in a room with a corpse and a killer.
“Dad, I need you.”
“I heard you,” he snapped. He backpedaled. “Hang tight. I’m going to take care of this.”
“You’re coming?”
“Answer when the doorbell rings. No matter what.” He hung up.
What the hell was that?
It was an hour before we knew. The doorbell r
ang, and I answered it, like I’d been told. I’d expected Dad, maybe some of his Whispertown buddies who knew how to take care of things like this. Not the people waiting on the other side of the door.
It was Sheriff Hill and the Stepton Police Department.
He said, “Nick Pearson, you have the right to remain silent . . .”
CHAPTER 47
TWO AMBULANCES ARRIVED ON THE SCENE. Hill allowed me to receive first aid for my cuts and bruises—while handcuffed. They didn’t arrest Reya. They should have, because she gave them an earful about my detainment. I’m almost certain she threw a punch at one of the officers, but they let her slide, given the circumstances.
She cooled when they rolled Dustin to the second ambulance on a stretcher. It was gratifying to see a handcuff securing him, too. The motion awakened him, and he gave me and Reya a finger wave before being loaded on the transport. A second, covered gurney came next. The mayor.
The EMTs transporting the Burkes were the same ones who took Eli from the school. It seemed like something I should feel good about. Poetic justice. The universe balancing things. All I felt were aches and the cuffs biting into my wrists.
The ambulance and its half-dead cargo cruised away from the Burke estate, destination unknown. Once I was adequately patched up, the SPD loaded me and Reya into separate patrol cars and shuttled us to the station. Seems the universe wasn’t done with us yet.
I lost sight of Reya’s car on the way to the station. When we arrived, Hill handled me himself, rushed me past the booking desk directly into our favorite interrogation room.
Mostly I said nothing, exercising my right to remain silent. I was plenty scared, though. He still hadn’t told me what I’d been arrested for. Reya was the only person I trusted who knew I was here. And vice versa. If this police department was as dirty as I thought it was, we could be in more danger than we were with Dustin.
“I’m sure I get a phone call this time, Sheriff.”
I thought he’d deny it, I expected him to. He said, “Be cool, Pearson.”
He left and returned with a cordless phone, uncuffed me.
I dialed Mom. No way to keep her out of it now. I wanted to hear her voice. I did, on her voice mail. I left a frantic message about my arrest, Reya, being at the police department, and I ran down all the name tags and badge numbers I’d memorized while getting alcohol rubbed on my cuts, so there would be people to question if I disappeared. I talked until the digital recorder cut me off.
Head low, I handed the phone back to Hill. He sat across from me.
“Where’s Reya?” I asked.
“Down the hall. It’s standard procedure until we can get a statement or someone comes to get you. I’d like you tell me everything that happened, in painstaking detail. Now, please.”
“I don’t have to talk. I know that much.”
He looked to the sky for divine assistance. “Kid, you don’t know crap. If you did, you’d realize I didn’t book you. No fingerprints, no mug shot, no official record of you being here. I read you the Miranda and slapped on the bracelets for the sake of my new guys. Not everyone knows what’s going on here.”
I stiffened. “You mean Whispertown?”
“I do. The quicker you can explain how that bloodbath at Richie Burke’s house came to be, the sooner I can start cleaning this up, if it can be cleaned.”
“Clean it up? Dustin’s a killer. I thought you said you didn’t sign on to cover up murders.”
“I didn’t lie to you. Dustin will be dealt with accordingly, but do you want all the work we’ve done to unravel because that little prick went on a rampage? If we don’t do something to smooth this over before it reaches your U.S. Marshal friends, then we might be adding as many as fifty to that boy’s current body count. You and all of your WitSec cousins, uncles, and aunts might be at risk.”
I shook my head. “Why should I trust you?”
“Because your father trusts me. He called me to come get you. Now talk. We don’t have much time.”
It could be real, or a trick, or something in between. I didn’t know, was too tired to care. This day couldn’t get any worse, I thought. Incorrectly, by the way.
I said, “It started on my first day of school, after I bumped into Reya. . . .”
Five hours later I was on my fourth bottle of water—death brawls tend to dehydrate—and popping Advil for my throbbing wounds. Hill asked me follow-up questions to my story, double-checking details. He could’ve been trying to catch me in a lie. For once there were none. I told him everything and hoped I wouldn’t regret it.
Two hard knocks on the interrogation room door drew his attention.
“What is it?”
“The boy’s parent is here, Sheriff.”
He nodded and looked at me. I said, “Where’s Reya? I’m not leaving without her.”
“Noble, kid. She left two hours ago.”
That deflated me, sapping the last big of energy I had. If she was home, and safe, there was no need to fight anymore. I let Hill walk me to the front, expecting my mom to be there. It was my other parent.
The sheriff released me. “We’ll be in touch, James.”
Dad shook the sheriff’s hand. It was like seeing an owl shake hands with a bat, natural enemies being cordial. Before we left the station, I asked the sheriff, “What are you going to do now?”
He said, “What I can.”
Dustin would’ve enjoyed the way those words chilled me.
In the SUV, Dad didn’t ask if I was okay, if I wanted a burger, nothing. That was fine, I didn’t want to talk to him anyway. “Where’s Mom?”
He didn’t answer. I took it as him being vindictive old Dad, mad at me for challenging him, or mad at Mom for defying him.
His silence wasn’t about anger. It was about heartbreak.
Soon, I’d feel it, too.
Our house was too dark and still to be occupied. It was past eight, full night. Her car was in the driveway. “Mom?”
Dad moved into the kitchen and flipped the light switch. He returned with a sealed envelope, gave it to me. My name, Tony, was on the front, in Mom’s handwriting.
“You probably want to read that in your room,” Dad said, which meant he wanted to be alone. He returned to the kitchen and clinked ice cubes in a glass, followed them with a healthy dose of bourbon. I took his advice and climbed the stairs. Even knowing the letter was going to be something awful, I couldn’t muster any true fear. I’d faced the threat of pain and murder today. My terror reserves were spent. That wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
I sat on my bed and tore the envelope, removed the note written on a yellow sheet from a legal pad. I had a premonition.
She left me.
The letter offered details:
Dear Tony,
I have not abandoned you. I cannot say the same for Nick, or Steven, or Logan, or Tyler. This life of ours isn’t living. It’s masquerading. A never-ending ball where no one’s our friend and we can’t step outside for cool air no matter how bad we want to. Safety has cost us everything, and I no longer care to be “protected.”
I wanted you with me for this new chapter. I did. But Deputy Marshal Bertram and your dad reminded me that the life I’m choosing now is a dangerous one. Taking you with me would have been selfish. Putting you in harm’s way is not what a good mother would do.
I know, I know . . . a good mother wouldn’t disappear, either. Maybe that proves my point. you’re better off without me. For now.
In the short time you’ve been Nick Pearson, I’ve seen you grow more than I have in the last four years. You’re making friends, going to parties, you’ve got that beautiful girlfriend (if I’m premature on that one, be patient, I saw how she looks at you . . . ). you can have a real life in Stepton. Provided your father doesn’t screw things up. Even if that happens, it’s on him. WitSec won’t abandon a minor. you’ll be safe. Which is my strongest desire.
I still love you and I still love your father. But he’s more to bl
ame for this than any of us have been willing to admit. That being said, forgive him. I’m trying to, but you HAVE to, for your own sake. Don’t hate him for this.
I’ll find ways to keep in touch, one day, when you’re done with school, and better able to decide what you want and need, we’ll be reunited until then, be healthy, and happy, and enjoy the tranquillity of small-town life.
I love you, my baby. until we meet again.
MOM
What the hell was this? I reread it several times, flipping the sheet over, looking for a hidden message. Was this why Dad seemed distracted when I called earlier? Why he left me with Hill for hours?
I exploded from my room, entered the kitchen waving Mom’s letter like a declaration of war. “You did this, Dad! Did you go look for her? Maybe she hasn’t gotten too far, we can—”
He sat hunched over his untouched drink, crying, tears dripping into the glass. It was as startling as learning Dustin’s true demeanor. Dad looked up at me, unashamed. He left his seat to embrace me. The first hug he’d given me in years.
“I’m so sorry, son. I’m so sorry.”
Another first. So many changes today. Not all of them were horrible. Just enough for the good ones not to matter.
CHAPTER 48
IN MY DREAMS, DUSTIN STANDS A hundred feet away with a sniper rifle, sunlight glinting off the massive scope.
“Hard to control the barrel from there, Tony.” He pulls the trigger and it sounds like metal scraping concrete.
I woke up choking on my own spit, checking my chest for bullet holes. The metal-on-concrete sound came again. A grumbling engine coughed and died in the driveway. I went to the window, winced from the sun stabbing my sleep-sensitive eyes. I hoped to see Reya, remembering at the last second that she no longer had a car. The vehicle blocking Dad’s was a plain gray sedan, a rental or a car someone bought because a car they actually liked wasn’t in their budget. The face behind the wheel was hard to place. Until it wasn’t.
